Stay
by WitchGirl
Summary: One night was all he had left. Catherine/Warrick.


Stay

**Summary:** One night was all he had left. Catherine/Warrick.

Catherine unlocked the door to her home with a sigh, her eyelids heavy and begging for sleep. She had no plans to deny them. She opened the door and stepped inside, letting it fall closed behind her. She walked down the dark hallway, stepping out of her heals with a relieved groan and walked on the cool hardwood floors to the kitchen. It took her a moment to remember that Lindsey was sleeping over at a friend's house that night, and that she didn't have to be so quiet. But still, she kept the lights off, more because it was easier on her eyes than anything else and went to the fridge, searching for the bottle of champagne she had been storing in there since her mother's birthday party.

She took it out and frowned when she noticed that it was uncorked. Then she decided that her mother had probably purchased a new bottle since the party. The woman never could pass up a good glass of bubbly. Catherine smiled and held the cool bottle against her aching neck, relishing the way the condensation slithered across her skin and onto her shoulder. It had been a long night. Too long, in fact, and now that everything was resolved, she was ready for bed.

She closed the refrigerator door and approached the table where she was just about to sit down and drink out of the bottle when she heard a knock at her door.

Her stomach lurched.

About a year ago, when Lindsey was supposed to be spending the night at her friend, Rachel's house, she had been returned to the Willows residence with a police escort and a report of driving without a license. Apparently, she and her friends had stolen Rachel's mother's car and took it for a joyride around the block. The last thing Catherine wanted to deal with now was a delinquent daughter, so she took her sweet time walking over to the door.

She opened it with closed eyes, ready to see badges and uniforms and guilty faces, but instead heard a voice, quiet and gravelly.

"Hey."

It was just one word, but it was enough to recognize and her lids fluttered open to see Warrick watching her with playful blue eyes. Catherine, exhausted as she was, blinked at him dumbly for a few seconds before her mind could even form a response.

"Um… Warrick. What are you…?"

He put a finger to her lips and stepped forward, making her step backwards into the house instinctively. "Don't," he said.

Her brow furrowed. "Don't what?" she asked.

"Ask questions," he said.

"Do you want to…" she began, then seemed to catch herself and stumbled. "I mean, um… Come in." She stepped aside and he entered, the door closing shut behind them and bathing them in darkness broken only by the fragments of moonlight that filtered in through the hall window. He stood very close, and she could smell his breath which held the hint of stale coffee and something like copper that she couldn't place. He didn't say anything a moment and her mind was spinning. Warrick always had a habit of throwing her off her game.

She opened and closed her mouth twice before she said. "I know you said not to ask, but why are you here?"

He laughed. "I'm not sure, really. At the diner, with all of you guys there, just talking and laughing, and I looked at you… Catherine, I looked at you and I thought, _Now. Now is the time to say something_. Because even under unforgiving florescent lights and at the end of an exhausting day, you still looked…"

She took a step back, but she wasn't sure why. "But you didn't say anything."

"I think that's what led me here," he said.

She seemed to remember her manners. "Um… I have champagne. Would you like some champagne? I think that might help, er, lubricate the situation." She turned around and walked swiftly to the kitchen and his heavy footsteps told her that he wasn't far behind. She flipped the light switch and went to the cabinets where she pulled out two red wine glasses and turned around.

He chuckled. "A little wide for champagne, wouldn't you say?"

"A glass is a glass," Catherine said. "And if it holds my liquor, then it's a good glass."

"And if I hold _my_ liquor, it's a good night," said Warrick with a smirk.

It wasn't that funny, but it made her grin and let out a small, monosyllabic laugh, which broke the air with a dissonant cord. She felt her face flush and turned away, searching for the champagne bottle in the fridge.

She moved around soda bottles and old pizza boxes, wondering where it had gone, when Warrick said, "Is this what you're looking for?"

She stood up so fast, she banged her head on the top of the fridge. _Stop it_, she told herself as her head throbbed. _You're not fourteen and he's not the school quarterback._

She turned around, gathering what was left of her dignity and nodded at Warrick, who held the bottle of champagne she had left on the table.

"Are you sure you didn't start the party without me?"

She rolled her eyes, her confidence returning. "I'm sleep deprived, that's all. My mind was preparing to shut down when you knocked on my door." She didn't mention that he still hadn't explained what he was doing there. She took the champagne from him and poured it into the two glasses, handing one to him. He watched the champagne froth weakly, stretched too thin across the broad surface the red wine glass provided. And she watched him watch the champagne, chewing nervously on her lip and trying to decipher his motives telepathically.

Suddenly, he looked up at her. "Wanna toast?"

"I don't have any bread…" she said dumbly and then gave a start. "Oh. You mean the champagne."

He laughed, deep and surprising loud as it echoed in the kitchen. "Well… yeah."

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Wow, it's amazing what lack of sleep does to your brain. Um…" She tried to think. "What would we toast to?"

Warrick's eyes drifted away. "How about tonight?"

"Toast to tonight?" Shivers drizzled down her spine like evening rain. "What's so special about tonight?"

"Well, nothing yet," Warrick conceded. He gave her an enigmatic smile and raised his glass. "Here's to tonight."

Slightly unsure, she touched her glass to his. "To… tonight," she echoed. They drank and she closed her eyes, the bubbling warmth of the champagne sinking into her stomach, the sweetness of it wrapping around her like a blanket. She smiled and sighed before opening her eyes to see him staring at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Follow me," he replied, exiting the kitchen.

Catherine was more than a little startled. What was Warrick doing leading her around in her own house? A house, she realized, that he'd barely ever been in. But she followed him and found him in the dimly lit living room, where he was fiddling with the stereo. Low notes filtered through the speakers with a smooth, rhythmic feminine voice. Warrick turned around and placed his glass down on the coffee table.

"Dance?" he suggested.

She wrinkled her nose. "I can't dance to jazz this slow," she said.

His lips twitched. "Try," he suggested.

She placed his glass next to his and then looked up at him. He took her hands and led her away from the table, then slid his arms around her waist. She followed his lead and wrapped her arms around his neck as he tipped his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes, the music filtering in through her ears. He guided her, carefully, and Catherine realized she was utterly relaxed in his embrace, and yet there was an electric current inside of her that kept her slightly on her guard. But eventually, as she followed his feet, this, too, melted away and she leaned her head against his shoulder, falling asleep on her feet because she knew he wouldn't let her fall.

They stayed like that for what seemed like hours. Swaying gently to the quiet music as he held her securely. He pulled away and she looked up at him, wondering why.

"What's wrong?" she asked, the electricity prickling her skin again.

He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and frowned at her. "This is what I should have said to you in the diner," he explained. There was regret in his voice that she didn't understand. She cupped his face in her hands.

"I think you're saying it now," she replied. "So why the long face?"

"I should go…" he began.

"No." It wasn't a plea. It lacked any hint of desperation or disappointment. It was just a calm, solemn statement, because she wouldn't let him go. Catherine was used to having things her way. When she was younger, this interfered in several of her relationships. Now that she was older, she had accepted that she couldn't always get what she wanted. But now that Warrick was in her arms, she wouldn't let him walk out. And it was silly of him, in her opinion, to think that he had a choice in the matter.

He seemed to get the message because he smiled. She waited for him to lean forward, almost dared him with her thoughts, but he never did. In fact, he looked away, out the window of her living room. She placed her hand on his cheek again and forced him to look at her.

"Warrick…" she said.

He didn't seem to know how to answer her.

So she did it for him. Closing her eyes and diving in without a second thought, she found his lips, and he kissed her back, his hands gripping her waist as her fingers entangled themselves in his hair.

For years, on idle days or slow work nights, Catherine had allowed her mind to drift to a place like this, a place that lived in his embrace, between his lips, inside his eyes… For years, she had played with the idea, humoring herself, but never falling too deep, never deep enough for it to hurt when she hit the ground, when she refocused her vision and saw the truth that was in front of her. For years she had loved him, with every cell in her body, and for years she had convinced herself that she was satisfied with their close friendship. For years, she had imagined this kiss, but what she didn't know was that this kiss had imagined them, too. It was born for the sole purpose of connecting these two people, and it lived inside their regrets and quiet passion, and it burned hot enough to scald, but warm enough to sooth. It was burning now, softly but stubbornly, like the last stout candle after a long night, or the final embers of a campfire by the river. What Catherine didn't know was that this was the end of the kiss's life, not the beginning. This was what it had yearned for, this connection, this single spark, and now, finally satisfied, it was time for it to fade away.

When it was over, Catherine pulled gently away. The dulcet tones of the jazz musician floated dully in the background. Her next words were bold, but she didn't care. "Stay. Come to bed with me."

"It's only tonight," Warrick whispered. "It can only ever be tonight."

Catherine broke away from him, something inside her fizzling out. It left a dull ache. "How can you say that?"

"I have no choice," Warrick explained. "Catherine, if I could, I would spend… decades, centuries, eons with you. I thought I was going to. I thought we had time. How stupid I was."

"We still have time," Catherine breathed. "There's _always_ time. Please, just stay."

"I want to," he said, his voice saturated with sincerity. "I wish I could. But tomorrow will come soon, and I can't be here when it does."

"What's the matter with you?" Catherine demanded. "We saved your life tonight, _I_ saved your life tonight!"

"Every night, you saved my life, Catherine," Warrick said, with a warm smile. "But not tonight."

"You could have gone to jail!"

"And now, I never will." Warrick put a hand on her cheek. "Love, Catherine. That's what we had."

Catherine shook her head. "Had?"

Warrick pulled her close, guiding her head against his shoulder. "You have to be strong. The iron wall we all know and love, always tall and proud and nothing can break you. They need you."

"And I need _you_," Catherine insisted. "I don't know what you're talking about, Warrick, but it's scaring me. Where are you going? Stay. Why just tonight?" She pushed away from him, angrily. "Why not tomorrow, and a million tomorrows, why did you _come_ here and say and do all of these beautiful things, only to tell me that we can never have this again? Is that all I am to you?"

"No," Warrick insisted, firmly. "Never."

"Then _why_?"

"Because tonight is all I have," Warrick reiterated. "We're lucky we have even that much."

Catherine stared at him and slowly shook her head, lines of bafflement etched into her brow. She chewed on her lip and rubbed her aching eyes. "I'm so tired…"

"I know." He slid an arm around her. "Let's take you to bed."

She looked up at him. "Will you stay with me there?"

He hesitated, then he nodded. "For as long as I can."

She pulled away from his touch, and then seemed to reconsider. She reached out and took his hand, then guided him up the stairs. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, and the moon cast an eerie glow on Warrick's once bright blue eyes. She led him to her bedroom. He sat on the end of the bed and she sat next to him. She stared at the wall.

"What happens now?"

"We sleep."

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she just listened. She felt his hand, almost dwarfing hers. His skin was tough but also smooth and his thumb was running down the back of her hand. She could hear their breathing, out of sync but almost in rhythm. His was deep and heavy, and hers was lighter and slower. Mostly, she could smell him, that classic musk of wet earth and wood and something uniquely _Warrick_ that she never could place. She could smell him so strongly she could taste him.

"I'm tired, too, Catherine," Warrick went on. "I think we should both close our eyes for a while."

She moved more fully onto the bed and curled her knees to her chest. Warrick leaned back and moved up until he was facing her, laying on his side. She threw an arm around him and nestled in the crook of his neck. That soft scent is what sang her to sleep, and soon, she was lost in a forest in the rain.

Moments later, her phone was ringing. She growled as she rolled over and groped around her end table for it. She held it to her ear.

"Willows." It was all she could do to keep from snapping, "_What?_"

It was Grissom. Through her hazy half-consciousness, she listened to what he had to say. But after those important words, everything in the world went mute. If Grissom was still talking, she couldn't hear him. She couldn't hear anything. Her eyes snapped open and she stared at the ceiling and listened for every other sound in the room. The wind moving in through her window. The leaves rustling in the tree outside. The crinkle of her bed sheets as she lowered them. Quickly, she turned to her side, where she could have sworn Warrick had been earlier, but the bed was empty. She was the only one. She sat up and heard the headboard rattle against the wall. She looked around, feeling more alone than she had in her whole life. Her heart sank to think that this entire night she had spent with him had been all in her head. A dizzying dream brought on by the stress of the day and the relief of exonerating Warrick. Nausea gripped her stomach, but by sheer will she didn't throw up.

"Catherine, are you still there?" So Grissom _had_ been still talking.

"I'm on my way," she said, and hung up. Her voice was crackly and barely there.

Catherine swung her legs over the side of the bed and paused. She stared at the wall. She closed her eyes and listened. And then, she smelled it. That soft, wet, earthen scent that came with him. It was too strong to be imagined. And then, she thought, maybe _this_ was the dream, the nightmare that came after falling asleep, and if she opened her eyes again, he would be there. He would be _there_.

She waited. She breathed him in. She listened for the second pair of lungs, and waited for a hand to hold hers and pull her out of this dream. The more she waited, the more sure of herself she became. He had to be there. The smell was too strong for him to be gone, he had to still be _there_. He must have decided to stay after all, in spite of everything, regardless of what he had said earlier, he must have fought Hell itself to come back to her and stay. She closed her fists and held her breath and opened her eyes.

The moonlight streaming in through the window. The leaves shaking in the tree outside. Columns of dust dancing above her hardwood floor. An empty bed. These are the things that she saw.

Catherine reached for the pillow she had dreamed he'd slept on and hugged it tightly to her chest. She took a breath and her heart skipped a beat. There he was again, his essence bonded to the threads of the linen pillow case.

Darkness and quiet were there in her room, it's true. But so was he.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Note:<em>** I began this fic years ago, after the season 8 finale. It was heavily influenced by Eve 6's song "Here's to the Night". It just so happens that I was listening to that album in the car the other day which reminded me about this story. So I came home and finished it. I know it's cliche, but that's what fan fictions are for, right? Also, who doesn't love Patrick Swayze Ghost love? :D


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